


Whiskey and other lullabies

by Mohini



Series: Ghosts [17]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting, chosen family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 09:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18962107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: The fever’s high enough that time and place are hazy, but Tasha’s voice means not desert so that’s all he cares about





	Whiskey and other lullabies

James is more than ready to sleep until next Tuesday, provided 6 days are long enough for the hell cold to go away. A night full of hacking utterly disgusting goo into the toilet while testing the limits of how many times it’s possible to need a tissue in any given five minute time span – too many for his fever addled brain to track – leaves him curled up at the top of the bed with his feet under the blanket while the rest of him sweats like it’s his job. He’s sticky and cold and boiling all at once. A shower would be good, but that would require being upright.

“I have tea,” Steve offers in a voice that’s far too cheerful for the situation.

Before he can object, James is being hauled upright (cue the return of the vertigo that had almost settled down to manageable) and a steaming mug of something herbal is at his lips. He chokes it down. Trying to tell overly helpful Saint Steven the Bringer of Teas that he’s just going to puke it up is a lost cause. The line about it being better to have something in him may well be true, but it doesn’t help when mint tea is stinging his sinuses on the way out.

There are pills, too, little red ones that James thinks are a decongestant, little white ones he hopes are acetaminophen, and bright orange ones that will ensure that the mess coming back up will be neon next round. And there will be a next round. Steve seems intent on making sure of that, what with all the damn tea. And crackers. James is ready to start pelting him with soda crackers, if only he thought he could aim.

“I can make some soup later, get some nutrients in you,” Steve is babbling and James can feel tea and mucus creeping up his throat at the very thought.

“I’m okay,” James chokes out, pressing his fist to his lips when the tight feeling at the back of his palate shoots upward to gag worthy.

“I got the good kind, from the deli,” Steve’s continuing and that’s it for James.

He lurches off the edge of the bed and stumbles into the bathroom, diving toward the toilet and cursing when he lands with more weight toward the prosthetic arm than the flesh one. His head bounces against the tank before his forehead connects with the seat. Not that it matters. A concussion isn’t going to make him any more nauseous than he is now.

The pills haven’t even begun to dissolve when they land in the toilet, sending up little splashes of gross as the tea spills from his lips and his back arches in a way that makes everything ache. When he’s finished he doesn’t bother trying to move, just flushes the evidence and pillows his head on the seat of the toilet. Might as well stay put. Steve will be along with more fucking tea soon anyway.

He wakes to a voice that is either savior or satan. He’s not terribly invested in determining which one, as long as Tasha makes Steve stop taking excessively attentive care of him.

“What hell, Rogers? There are five fucking mugs on the dresser! You said he was sick all night, how much goddamn tea did you push on him?”

Steve’s stammering something about fluids and congestion and trying to help.

“That is not help. Go away. Call Sam or something and crash with him. No one needs your Florence Nightingale routine here.”

James would feel bad for Steve getting Tasha’s reprimand at full volume like that but he’s just glad for a break from the damn tea. He’s never drinking herbal tea again. Ever.

There are drawers opening and closing, Tasha telling Steve to put what he needs for classes in a bag as well, and then Steve’s calling through the bathroom door that he’s going to stay with Sam a few days and that Tasha’s going to be there. James is tempted to tell him that he’s not a toddler and doesn’t actually need a babysitter, but he’s too grateful for Tasha making Steve stop to be snarky.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, the bathroom door creaks open.

“Alright, up you get,” Tasha orders. She steps past him and turns on the shower, then grips his upper arms and guides him to stand.

“Wash. Then bed.”

Orders are good. Orders can be followed without thought. The fever’s high enough that time and place are hazy, but Tasha’s voice means not desert so that’s all he cares about. There’s a hand on his chin, directing him to face her.

“Give me your hand,” she tells him. James would laugh at the sheer hilarity of such a literal request if he wasn’t biting back a yelp when she peels the protective gel cap from his stump. The skin there is always a little irritated, the scar tissue permanently pink and pitted. But there are streaks of bright red as well, swollen spots from too much heat and excess friction from him tossing and turning and clinging to the toilet all night.

Standing makes him dizzy, and Tasha tells him to sit on the now closed toilet while she puts the arm on the charging dock.  When she returns, she talks him through stripping out of sweat chilled pajamas and sitting on the floor of the tub. The water she sprays him with is just the right side of not quite hot, and her clipped commands to wash with a bar of soap pressed into his hand are more comforting than all the mother henning Steve showered him with overnight.

Helpless is terrifying. Tasha gets that. She comforts without coddling. Truth be told, she probably doesn’t know another way, but it’s their way, and it’s right. She hoses him off with the handheld shower head and closes the taps.

“Up. Let’s get your ass to bed.”

There’s a towel and small hands rubbing his shoulders and back dry before handing the towel to him for the rest. She’s found boxers and a soft t-shirt for him, so he dresses before following her into the bedroom. The bed is remade and there’s no remaining evidence of the overnight hydration quest. Tasha rubs salve into the irritated skin of his stump before tucking him under a sheet. The blanket is folded at the foot of the bed. There’s a mixing bowl on the bedside table, which she points out.

“You want up, you yell for me. Otherwise, use the damn bowl. Then yell for me.”

Bedside manner isn’t her strength, but she’s efficient. There’s a sealed tumbler of ice water and an airline bottle of bourbon. He raises an eyebrow at that.

“Whiskey makes everything better,” she tells him. “Drink it. Sleep. Feel better.”

He nods, then looks pointedly at his stump. Technically, he can open bottles one handed, but he’s too tired to make that kind of effort. She laughs, twists off the little metal top, and hands it back to him. A quick, burning swallow later, there’s Jim Beam warming his throat.

He drops his head back onto the pillow and there’s a hand brushing through his hair. His head hurts, his throat feels seared raw, and he’s still queasy. None of it matters much. Tasha’s there, growling at him to be still and rest, offering bourbon and orders and all the things he actually wants.


End file.
